It was now about nine at night, an hour when our ancestors generally retired to rest.  All Alfgar’s desire and hope—­O how joyful a hope!—­was to see from the hill the bearings of Clifton, and to descend, with all the speed in his power, towards it.  He might arrive before they had retired to rest.  So he ran eagerly forward.  The moon was bright, and the snow reflected so much light that locomotion was easy.

And now he became conscious that there was a strange gleam along the snow on his left hand—­a strange red gleam, which grew stronger and stronger as he advanced.  It seemed above and below—­to redden the skies, the frozen treetops with their glittering snow wreaths, and the smooth surface beneath alike.

Redder and redder as he ascended, until he suddenly emerged upon the open hill.  Before him were earthworks, which had been thrown up in olden wars, before Englishman or Dane had trodden these coasts.  He scrambled into a deep hollow filled with snow, then out again, and up to the summit, when he saw the cause of the illumination.

Before him the whole country to the southeast seemed in flames.  Village after village gave forth its baleful light; and even while he gazed the fiery flood burst forth in spots hitherto dark.  He stood as one transfixed, until the wind brought with it a strange and fearful cry, as if the exultation of fiends were mingled with the despairing cry of perishing human beings.

He knew whence it came by the red light slowly stealing beyond the next hill, and the fiery tongues of flame which rose heavenward, although the houses were hidden by the ground.

It was from Wallingford, a town three miles below Dorchester.  He knew, too, where he was himself; and the one impulse which rushed upon him was to hasten to Clifton, where he trusted he might find Edmund, or, at least, hear of him in this dread emergency.  He saw the village lying beneath in the distance, and turned to rush downward, entering the wood in a different direction.

But what sound is that which makes him start and pause?

It is the bay of the mastiff.  He is pursued.  He clasps his sword with desperate tenacity, in which a foe might read his doom, and rushes on, crushing through the brushwood.

Again the bay of the hound.

Onward, onward, he tramples through bush and bramble, until he sees his progress suddenly arrested by the dark-flowing river.

He coasts along its banks, keeping up stream.  The bay of the dog seems close at hand, and the trampling of human feet accompanies it.

All at once he comes upon a road descending to the brink, and sees a ferry boat at the foot of the descent.  He rushes towards it and enters.  The pole is in the boat.  He unlooses the chain, but with difficulty, and precious moments are lost.  He hears the panting of the ferocious beast just as he pushes the boat, with vigorous thrust, out into the stream.